


Christmas, My Child, Is Love In Action

by royal_chandler



Category: Avengers (2012), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (2012)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Christmas, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Superfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't be a cynic." His father says meaningfully, "The way your eyes used to light up on Christmas morning and that smile that came to your face whenever you saw the empty plate and glass, the soot by the chimney? That was always the point, Peter."</p><p>"If you say so."</p><p>"One day you'll understand."</p><p>"A day in a very distant future, if I have anything to say about it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas, My Child, Is Love In Action

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this on the actual holiday but I got distracted by festivities, working retail, and the extraction of four wisdom teeth. It's been a hectic week. However, 12 Days of Christmas and all that jazz. I'm still on the lookout for a beta when it comes to longer pieces so all mistakes are my own. Please feel free to call me out on anything; I attempted some new things with this and I'd like to know what worked and what didn't. Also Happy New Year! :)

__

_"Christmas, my child, is love in action."_  
— Dale Evans Rogers

Like a Hallmark cliché, Bing Crosby is crooning through several of the mansion's speakers when Peter gets home, tugging out his earbuds. The music polishes the Norman Rockwell scene made up by the perfectly trimmed tree and its quirky character, the strings of lights and draping garland that decorate the mantle and windows. Stockings are even hung by the chimney with care and countless trinkets speck the remaining furniture in reds, greens, silvers and golds.

His pop has gone above and beyond his year. Sure their house being decorated for the holidays isn't entirely unusual but sometimes Peter can hardly go two feet without bumping into a poinsettia and last week his pop had come back from his second round of Christmas shopping with ugly sweaters. Peter would love to believe his pop had meant it in irony. However, his father being continually disappointed when Peter's not donning one of the hideous atrocities is having him lean toward a no, which is unfortunate. 

Peter hangs his scarf and jacket on the coat rack, toes off his shoes before setting foot on the carpeted floor. He follows a strong scent of vanilla into the kitchen and is totally unsurprised to find his father baking, humming along cheerily to the carol playing. Little elves in sequins are splashed on his apron, dancing around with penguins in a swirling blizzard.

While Peter’s never been on an acid trip, he’s pretty sure that’s what one would look like.

Taking advantage of the fact that his father's attention is being occupied by the kitchen timer, Peter snags a sugar cookie off of a cooling rack on the counter. He eats and swallows before joking, “Planning to set out a plate for Santa tonight, Pop?”

“I stopped doing that when you turned nine and insisted that I stop wasting frosting on imaginary people,” Steve replies as he puts a tray into the oven. He turns to Peter with a smile. “Although it probably didn’t help that you actually saw your dad kissing Santa Claus the year before.”

“Yeah, thanks for that by the way. I’m still suffering from nightmares,” Peter mumbles. He hops onto the edge of the sink and grabs two more cookies, finishes them both in a few bites. He starts swinging a leg back and forth. “That was the year I asked for a telescope and found it in the shop. You told me Santa's sleigh was too filled to carry it while Dad claimed that Dummy was Santa's special helper and had made it.”

“We tend to work better as a team when we have a chance to collaborate on our stories. You confronted us separately on purpose," Steve laughs. 

“Hey, you guys had a good run—five years straight,” Peter indulges. "Although I still say that there's something incredibly disturbing about lying to a child until they realize that the logistics of a fat guy traveling the globe in one night and dropping off presents at the houses of those who managed to make the 'nice' list doesn't really gel."

"Don't be a cynic." His father says meaningfully, "The way your eyes used to light up on Christmas morning and that smile that came to your face whenever you saw the empty plate and glass, the soot by the chimney? That was always the point, Peter."

"If you say so."

"One day you'll understand."

"A day in a very distant future, if I have anything to say about it."

A strange twist flashes fast across his pop's face, leaves before Peter has enough time to understand what it was. 

Peter goes for a gingerbread man next but Steve expertly takes away the rest of the baked goods and sets them on the island, away from Peter’s grabby hands. Technically, they’re not completely out of reach but Peter doesn’t want to visit the web-slingers option again, not after what happened the last time he’d tried. Fun fact: wet bonding adhesive and pizza bagels do not mix. Yes, Peter trusts his webs to keep him from free falling into Manhattan traffic but he’d rather them not be intimate with what he puts in his mouth. “Don’t think I didn’t see the first one, Pete. These are supposed to last today and tomorrow. You’ll ruin your dinner with that sweet tooth.”

“It smells delicious really. Dinner couldn’t possibly be ruined when you’re the one cooking,” Peter replies, overly earnest. “This time tomorrow everyone will be gorging themselves on your turkey and just trying to get seconds will turn into a melee...”

Steve shakes his head with a fond expression. The kind he constantly makes whenever he’s in a room with Tony or Peter, not wanting to encourage their behavior on principle but never wishing to change them either. He ruffles Peter’s hair affectionately—making a _mess_ — causing the teenager to duck away, flail a little. “For the love of—Pop!” Peter yelps. “Honestly?”

Grinning, Steve replies, “Inevitable consequence of being such a wisecrack. How was your date with Gwen?”

Peter says, “It wasn't a date. Gwen and I are just friends.”

Tilting his head to the side, his Pop starts, “But I thought you said—"

“That we're talking more and no longer circumnavigating conversation around the forecast? Yeah, all true but it’s best for us to stay platonic. Anything else is too complicated and lately I’m trying my best not to be a selfish asshole.”

The drawstrings of Peter’s hoodie suddenly become very interesting and he wraps them around his fingers, unwraps. "Also I um—well.” He swallows and he can feel his face warming. “I haven't completely figured out what's going on between Flash and I yet. We're still trying to sort through some stuff. So there's that too."

“You haven’t said anything about that, Peter. Are you seeing him? In that way. Have you two been…” His pop trails off and does that thing where he attempts to communicate with his eyebrows and it’s the most awkward sight. It’s suggestive and just wrong. Peter barely wins the fight to not stick his head into his shirt.

Instead he settles for burying his face in his hands. He groans out miserably, “Ugh, Pop.”

His pop doesn't let up though, well used to Peter's groans probably. “Are you dating him? You told me that you were beginning to have feelings for him. Has it gotten serious?”

“This is real life. This is actually real life.” He allows himself a moment before resurfacing. “Flash and I are not dating either. Technically. We have had a few instances that were more than friendly. And in the interest of keeping this from becoming more horrifying than it already is, that is all that I’m saying.”

"Peter,” Steve starts strongly. “Peter, I'm here to listen. Granted, growing up, I never bore the burden of being torn between two people so I'm hardly experienced with love triangles ( _Love triangles_ , Peter echoes under his breath with disbelief because if that's not an antique.) but you can always come to me. Talk to me whenever you need." He puts a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezes; his gaze is concerned but mostly kind, altogether filled with unconditional love. “You know that I’m here for you no matter what it is. I just want to make sure that you don’t forget that. Ever.”

Peter knows. He can’t remember a single time that his pop hasn’t been supportive because it simply doesn’t exist. From Peter’s first skateboard to Spider-Man, he’s had his pop in his corner, always rooted with a proud and encouraging smile. He urges Peter to tackle challenges, take chances, and only accept failures as stepping stones. Alongside that the values of duty and honor had been instilled in Peter early on. He was taught the importance of standing up for what’s right and helping those who couldn’t help themselves, values that form the composite of a hero beyond a uniform and incredible power.

Therefore it was fair that his pop hadn’t necessarily been thrilled when Peter admitted to having feelings for Flash Thompson, a guy who’d always portrayed the bully in his son’s stories and scrapes, a guy who not only didn't personify those values but was the direct opposite. God, Peter himself had been shocked when the words had left him, fell on top of his head with the weight of an anvil. But after the bite and all of the loss it caused, Peter had been lost and wounded, off-balanced in a way that overwhelmed the common ebb and flow of shit luck that’s teenagehood. Flash had gotten it. He didn’t know about Peter’s vigilante activities, he still doesn’t, but Flash had understood ache that went deeper than the flesh, the kind that sucked the life of out of your bones.

In the fragile space between agreeing to and breaking Captain Stacy’s promise, Peter had gotten close to the boy he’d once considered to be the king of douchebags. They’d bitched about William Wordsworth together, played pick-up games of basketball in the park and Call of Duty in Flash’s bedroom whenever his drunken father wasn’t home and Peter wasn’t covering low level threats against the city, training and getting his ass handed to him by SHIELD agents. Being with Flash had been easy, the pattern to them weaving a friendship was seamless and undemanding. He’d been what Peter needed and right on time.

At the end of the day, his pop had just said ‘Okay. I trust you, Peter.’ Because along with duty and honor, Steve Rogers championed second chances. He’d said that no one gets by in life without them.

So yes Peter knows that he can talk to his pop about anything and he has no plans to ever stop going to either of his fathers for advice—he’d be an idiot otherwise—but he’s also a sixteen-year old junior in high school who’s not entirely insane. Despite his parents’ fine example, Peter does not believe in over-sharing so he simply responds, “I know. I do. I know, Pop.”

His father nods, satisfied. “Did you have a good time then?”

"Yeah we had a really great time,” Peter replies, once again at ease. “Ice skating at Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve is amazing. Plus, I landed on my face a total of zero times. I’m glad that I got to hang out with Gwen before she left the city with her family. It was nice of the megalomaniacs and aliens to take the day off.”

“Peter, there’s still plenty of day left.”

Peter freezes as not to make any sudden movements. “Uh nothing happened here. We’ll just pretend like I didn’t say anything at all,” he insists conspiringly after a moment, calling a truce.

Wide-eyed and confused, Steve plays along effortlessly. “Say anything about what?”

And maybe Peter giggles behind his fist because he doesn’t feel like he’s nine again but four, remembers the first time his pop ever perched him on this same counter top, the two of them sharing hot cocoa like partners in crime. Peter had nearly done a spit take when whipped cream didn’t only top their warm mugs but the tip of his new father’s nose. It’s a special memory for Peter, the moment he recognized that he was finally home.

“So where’s Dad? I didn’t see him before I left this morning and you’ve usually chased him out of the workshop by now. He's been working on that transmission sequence since yesterday afternoon," Peter says.

“Seeing as how I even know the process of fixing a transmission sequence, he's probably been done since yesterday afternoon. I think that the music’s keeping him in hiding,” his pop explains just as Bing Crosby gently fades out and Ella Fitzgerald slips in.

Peter laughs. “It’s too bad AC/DC never made a holiday album, huh?”

Wrinkling his nose, Steve replies, “Is it?”

“Well in Dad’s defense you have been extra spirited this year,” Peter comments with a half-shrug. “The tree went up the morning after Thanksgiving. We knocked down the Wrecking Crew and immediately started singing carols by the spinet once we got back home.”

"You're exaggerating," Steve says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and regarding Peter mildly, not impressed.

"Hello, I'm Peter Parker Stark-Rogers. It's nice to meet you," Peter deadpans.

"Stress on the Stark," Steve replies in his own special dry tone. 

"At this second, yeah. But I think I take after both of my fathers in even turns. And I think you're dodging the point. See? Me noticing that are my skillful tactician genes coming to play."

Few people aside from Peter would also notice his father's slight smirk, a small twitch. Slowly and with a soft expression, Pop confesses, "If I'm more spirited this year than last year, it's because I'm thankful for the 364 days I got in between. I'm grateful for the people that I got to share those days with and that they're all still here."

That's true, Peter can tell. One, that's exactly the sort of appreciation his pop has for the season and two, he's never lied to Peter (aside from the whole Saint Nick thing.) But still. Something doesn't sit right with the teenager. Now that's he's thinking about it, his curious mind can't let it go. He doesn't voice his suspicion, however. He smirks back at this father and jumps off the sink. "Sounds legit," he says approvingly and with a nod.

"Glad to no longer be blamed for your father choosing to tinker around in the workshop for hours on end. Especially since that habit started long before he met me," his pop says. He looks up to the ceiling. "JARVIS, would you mind doing me a favor?"

"I'm prepared to assist you to the fullest extent of my abilities, Captain Rogers," the AI answers.

"Please tell Tony that I'd like to see him sometime before the clock strikes twelve tonight," his pop requests. Thoughtfully, he adds, "That is if he plans to keep up our special tradition. He keeps telling me that he's been looking forward to it all year."

"Gross," Peter drawls.

Steve spares him a sympathetic glance. "Sorry."

JARVIS chimes in, "Sir would like you to know that he's making haste, Captain Rogers. Young Sir, I think that in your sanity's best interests, leaving the vicinity would be a brilliant course of action."

Peter mock gags and puts his earbuds back in, covers them with his hands for good measure as he backs out of the kitchen hurriedly. “Fa la la la la, la la la la... I cannot hear any of you. I’m actually pretty positive that a fairy just lost its wings. All of the fairies are dropping like flies.”

"Thirty-five seconds until arrival, Young Sir."

"Ugh, J. Whose side are you on?!"

...

"You're cheating. You're just full of cheating right now, Dad," Peter criticizes, hours later, long after they've tucked into dinner and have cleared the table, replacing the food with various board games. His dad is currently robbing the Monopoly bank blind. Gesturing out with his hand, "I am disappointed. Go ahead and try to defend yourself."

"I'm a victim of circumstance," Tony offers easily, flipping through the pastel colored money. "There's nothing unsavory about being advantageous when I'm playing with unworthy opponents."

Rolling his eyes, his pop takes the money out of his dad's hands and puts it back in the bank. "Covering up the dice when you throw and calling out whatever number you want is not being advantageous. Peter's right; you're cheating."

"Pure BS that is. My husband being the banker is supposed to work in my favor," Tony complains, crossing his arms. "Guess that's what I get for marrying such an upstanding guy."

"And you don't regret it for a second," his pop murmurs, leaning into his dad's space and tugging him by the sweater, a particularly atrocious garment because his dad is a sucker. He kisses him only chastely, thankfully.

"Yeah, I guess some aspects outweigh not winning Monopoly. You do have your finer points," his dad whispers.

Shaking the dice and clearing his throat, Peter reminds them, "Plenty of time for that later. Let's get our heads in the game, 'rents."

He doesn't get a chance to roll though, has to stop short when JARVIS interjects, "I apologize for the interruption, sirs but there is currently a hostage situation in progress at the corner of 22nd and Lawson."

"The bodega two blocks down?" Peter asks incredulously.

"Exactly that," JARVIS confirms. "The authorities have been notified but are still several minutes out."

A projection pixels together, black and white security footage playing before them. Peter quickly counts four masked gunman and three civilians including the man behind the counter.

"Bat signal's got nothing on you, JARVIS."

"Young Sir, I'm hoping my assumption that that was never actually in question is correct."

"No way. That's just insulting. I'm only drooling over you like always," Peter remarks fondly. 

"Yes, yes, JARVIS is very pretty. However more importantly, my winning steak lives to see another day, boys. Feel free to bow at my presence we get back," his dad determines. He stands and activates the bracelets on his wrists, calling for the armor. Turning to his husband, "Come fly with me, Cap?"

"Always," Steve responds, on his feet as well.

It's their usual exchange and Peter does his part, promises to beat them there before darting away to suit up.

…

In hindsight, Peter should have predicted the set-up because who holds people hostage at a convenience store on Christmas Eve, really? A robbery would be more clear-cut, less sloppy. You empty the register, you leave. You don't wait around to get arrested and you most certainly don't wait around for Iron Man and Captain America to show up and kick your ass. There's stupid and then there's just plain moronic.

Disabling the armed men is a cakewalk. Peter webs the one standing guard at the door and glues him to the wall. When the idiot goes to reach for his gun, Peter instantaneously kicks the pistol out of his grip. It only takes two blows to the face to knock the guy out cold and leave him slumping forward.

His dads take care of business on their end effortlessly too. By the time Peter's finished with the watchdog, his three accomplices are writhing in pain, holding on to various parts of their newly injured bodies. It's hilarious, the sight of burly men whimpering like newborns. To save them a semblance of dignity, Peter generously webs their mouths shut. "I apologize for the flavor, jerks. Haven't quite managed to perfect the minty fresh batch, yet. It's a work in progress."

Slipping on his shield, his pop frowns and surveys the area uncertainly. Sirens can be heard wailing in the background, growing louder by the second. "Is it just me or was that much ado about nothing?" Addressing the store owner, "What did they want?"

The man shrugs, a whole lot calmer than he had been when Peter and his dads first arrived. There's color in his face again. "They wouldn't say. I offered them everything I had, whatever they wanted but they were just waiting for you." Shaking his head, he admits, "It didn't make sense to me. They promised not to hurt anyone so long as we listened. They didn't make any demands other than that."

"That's not at all reassuring," his dad comments from his position beside a woman and her young boy. "Might have zipped their traps too soon, Spidey."

"I don't like this," Steve says tersely. "The police are here. We should move everyone outside and then look around. Something's not right."

His dad ushers out the civilians, his pop removes the whining bozos and Peter's left with the doofus pinned to the wall, snoring of all things. "Oh, you're a prize, a winner for sure," Peter quips. "They're gonna love you in lockup."

He's got the guy off the wall and over his shoulder when a loud crash sounds in the back of the store, behind the door marked 'Employees Only.' For a moment, Peter's torn but a second crash has him shifting into gear. He puts the unconscious gunman down and makes it to the back room in time to see a figure slip out into the night.

Peter hightails it and follows the person some odd streets over. He slides to a stop when he finds himself uncomfortably close to a high-energized ray gun. From past experience, Peter knows that it's been assembled from the alien tech left behind after the Battle of New York. That it doesn't serve one well to have it aimed at their profile.

"Shit," Peter curses.

"Spider-Man," the cliché-riddled—honestly, everything the proverbial book has written, this unfortunate soul is—villain muses, pleased and smarmy.

Peter goes for pleasant because while this guy is a wannabe, his weaponry isn't as amateur and Peter would love for his body to stay in one piece. "Raymond, long time no see. How are you?"

"Not in the mood for your antics."

"No one ever is. Sucks to be me, I tell ya. I guess you just lured me out here for my handsome face then."

"Won't be so handsome once I'm done with it," Raymond replies, he says it with such nonchalance that Peter doesn't get a chance to avoid the gun striking him across the jaw twice, the swift, hard kicks to his ribs and stomach.

Raymond's obviously learned some tricks since their last meeting.

Head swimming and the taste of copper bitter on his tongue, Peter decides to hell with pleasantries and fights back. After turning off the spotlight for this guy's fifteen minutes of megalomaniac fame four months ago and sending him to Sing-Sing, he's probably not going to settle for anything less than Peter's head on a silver platter. The want of revenge is clear in the other man's eyes and Peter blinds them with a rapid-fire of web blasts before launching a roundhouse kick and then sweeping under Raymond to get him off his already unbalanced feet.

The gun skids across the pavement but only to get caught under the foot of the once unconscious heap Peter had left in the bodega. The masked man holds the gun eye-level, examines it crudely in the moon's light and that's just not okay.

"All of this hoopla for me? I'm touched," Peter cracks, stepping toward him gently. "But really? This is severely out of your league so why don't we agree on no science experiments today, huh? Hand over the mega-sized death machine before your hurt yourself."

"Shut up," is the grumbled return he receives.

Peter's spidey-sense tells him that Raymond now has his vision back and Peter's just about screwed. He watches the blue light of the gun pulse as it's turned to him.

Gravely, terrified, Peter begs, "Please give it to me before you get us both killed."

"I said shut—"

There's an unmistakable cut through the air and that's going to hurt in the morning but luckily Peter's not the one on the receiving end of Captain America's shield and it's not his problem.

"Pop," Peter starts but is clipped off.

"I do not want to hear it," his father says coldly. He disarms the weapon and tosses it to Tony, who catches it smoothly above the now still body of Raymond. "Get home and have JARVIS run scans on you. Now."

Softly, Peter tries again, "Pop, I'm sorry."

"Peter! What exactly are you misunderstanding here," his pop snaps, anger set deeply in his features. "When I give you an order, you listen to it. I'm not telling you twice. Get to your room and do not leave it under any circumstance."

And Peter's seen his father livid, fired up and explosive but it's never been at him and he doesn't know what to do with this. Hot with shame and guilt, a little bit of his own anger, he wants to stay and fight. However, when he looks to get an answer from his dad, it's clear that he's expected to stand down at this moment, that he's crossed a line here.

"I'm sorry," he says to them both, awkwardly before shooting a web to the corner of the nearest building, swinging away through the festivities of the city.

…

Two short raps, a drumroll, and another rap sounds on Peter's door. He's tempted to ignore it but his dad tends to be persistent about these things and there's no point. He'll find a way in somehow. Peter might as well get it over with now and let him in while he's still using common courtesy as a tactic. Seeing as how Peter's been sitting alone in his room for over two hours, his dad has given him a considerable amount of space. 

Peter wheels his chair away from his desktop and taps a combination of keys on his phone, triggering the deadbolt on his door to unlock. 

"Merry Christmas, kiddo," Tony says lightly as he steps in. He amends it to, "Bah humbug to you, too," when Peter doesn't respond in a timely manner.

"Sorry," Peter mumbles. He puts away his phone and though he winces a little at the pull, he manages a half-hearted smile. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

Tony takes a seat on Peter's bed. He passes some time by fluffing one of Peter's pillows, sets it back and then asks, "Are you okay?"

Peter nods. "I don't have anything more serious than a black eye. JARVIS said that it looks a lot worse than it is."

Judging by the lack of change in his father's expression, Peter can tell that this isn't news. He'd probably had the AI's findings communicated to him with zero delay. Peter would bet a year's worth of allowance on that. 

"You scared the shit out of me and your pop, Peter," Tony informs him. 

"I didn't mean to!" Peter exclaims, breaking after spending hours on his own, thinking and thinking. His voices reaches a high pitch. "I thought that I had a handle on things. The guys in the bodega were taken care of and we'd dealt with the wannabe before, gotten rid of him pretty easily. I didn't expect for them to team up against me."

"Hardly anything goes the way we expect it to in crime fighting." His dad regards him with understand before sighing, "Ultimately, you know the rules. When a situation escalates—for example, an additional opposing figure deciding to use you as a punching bag—you call for help immediately. You don't go out on your own. There's no two ways about it. That's what we all agreed to when you decided to join in the business. No unnecessary risks. Granted, it's taken me a while but I've learned that they're just not that cool. You have no idea how it felt seeing you on the other side of that gun."

Feeling like crap, Peter doesn't have an argument against that so he asks, unsure of if he even really wants to know the answer, "How long am I out for?"

His dad's smile returns. "You're not out. You're very much still in."

"But I thought—"

"Do you want to be out? I could always go find your father and take back everything I said in your favor."

"No but—Dad, Pop's been acting weird. I mean, I know what I did was wrong but he completely exploded on me," Peter maintains. "I've never seen him that angry before. Not at me at least."

His dad is quiet. His dad is never quiet and that just adds to Peter's curiosity. It brings every extraordinary instance to the forefront. His pop doubling Peter's sparring sessions with Natasha because Peter had missed a stepping side kick in a fight a month ago, his aerial combat being limited in a match-up against Loki the week before because of snow. Freaking snow! Because his pop had been convinced he'd get pneumonia from flying. He's been treated with kid gloves every single time the Avengers are called. The term overprotective would be an understatement.

"What's going on? Dad?" Peter nudges his dad's socked with his own, who nudges back, scuffles and lightens the moment. With a small laugh, he continues, "Daaaad... Come on! Give me a clue at least. I feel like I'm screwing up all over the place. I don't even get to know why? How is that fair?"

"Peter, you're not screwing up," Tony says. "We both think you're doing a great job. Correction: you are. You're amazing. The Amazing Spider-Man. That should be a thing. I know a skywriter—"

"Dad," Peter cuts in.

"We've never been more proud of you. We're your biggest fans."

"Right. Okay. My ego isn't as easy as yours. You're not going to distract me."

"You are rude and I am a terrible, terrible influence," his dad says pitifully. "Although it's immensely difficult to remember a time before you came into our lives, your pop's recent behavior is vaguely familiar. The last time he was this anxious was when we were looking to raise a family. Steve was very preoccupied with providing a safe home, taking care of his loved ones, etcetera. All of the usual amplified."

And while it's like winning at Tetris, how it all begins to make sense, it doesn't quite feel the same. He's not overwhelmed with excitement. Breathless and truly having no idea how he feels, Peter wonders, "Pop wants to adopt again?"

Scratching his beard and shrugging, Tony replies, "In all honesty, I'm not entirely sure. This could be his mid-life crisis for all I know. He's about due for one. I'm just waiting for him to come to me. Last time, I had to ambush him with adoption brochures. He sputtered into his coffee for a full minute."

"Do you want to adopt another kid?" Peter asks after swallowing hard. 

There's no gives in his dad's face. "I think the bigger question is how would you feel about it. Your opinion matters most here."

Peter looks for a response but the only thing he can think on are his words from earlier that day:

_A day in a very distant future, if I have anything to say about it._

...

It doesn't take too long for Peter to make a decision. After his dad leaves to go finish his last minute gift-wrapping, Peter heads to the living room. It's dim, shadowed by the twinkling holiday lights. His pop is staring into the Christmas tree, startles when Peter says by way of greeting, "According to Google, you’re nesting."

Plopping onto the couch with his StarkPad in hand, Peter twists, careful of his aches, and lies back with his head in his father's lap.

"You've been googling me?”

Peter can practically _hear_ the disapproving frown, the wrinkle forming between his father’s blue eyes. But it's belied by the gentle hand that settles in his hair, carding through.

"I didn’t search you specifically because that’s weird. Why would I want to learn about you from the internet when you’re right here? I just searched the symptoms.”

His pop chuckles quietly, amused. “I have symptoms?”

“Mhmm." Peter hums pointedly while zooming in on the browser until the bullet-point list takes up the screen, sets them in a blue glow. "Got 'em right here."

His pop leans over him, peering. "That's for pregnant women, which I'm clearly not."

"Clearly but that doesn't matter. Pregnant women aren't the only people who anticipate becoming parents,” Peter counters. “The definition just needs to catch up with our PC world. An expected child can grow in someone’s heart just as well as in someone else’s body.”

Confidently Peter begins listing, "You ignore the chore wheel and steal cleaning jobs and while that's awesome because hey, less chores, it's telling. Last week you changed all of the knobs on the cabinets because they were too sharp and loose. And then you labeled my shoe shelf! Also the shit ton of baking?"

Sighing, "Pete."

"Sorry. The crap ton of baking is a crap ton. Excessive, even for you."

"Is that a complaint? Coming from you?"

"An observation. A very tasty observation," Peter corrects. Taking a deep breath, he wants to tread carefully but there's really no nice way to convey his next words. "You overreacted to me fighting Raymond tonight, Pop. If you were me, you wouldn't have done anything different. You said something wasn't right so I checked it out."

Peter feels his father go tense under him.

"We were supposed to check it out together, Peter. That shiner on your face has me inclined to disagree that I'm being overprotective," Steve returns, unwavering and incorruptible despite his feelings being an 'inclination.' "I'm your father, Peter. I'm not going to ever apologize for worrying about you and wanting you safe. That is not out of the ordinary. That's my job as your parent, the most important job that I have. Your health and your safety have always been and will always be my first concern."

Peter clicks off his tablet and puts it aside. He sits up and faces his father. Tries to fool himself into believing that this isn't a minefield he's moving across. "The past couple of months haven't been your normal type of concern though, Pop. There's been multiple times where I've gotten reprimanded for nothing at all! You can't tell me that you haven't been the biggest hardass—"

In a warning tone, "Son, there is a line and you are fast approaching."

It's still for a moment, until Peter states simply with a shrug, "There's me."

Puzzled and apparently thrown off, Steve questions, "What?"

Sheepishly, Peter admits, "I’m my own smoking gun. I talked to Dad to see what he thought and he told me that you'd acted this way right before you guys looked into adopting. That it took him bringing home pamphlets for you to figure out what was going on." Gesturing out, he tacks on lightly, “I’d love to hear your rebuttal for that.”

His pop opens and shuts his mouth without uttering a word. Peter can see the realization dawn in his eyes.

“Personally, I don’t want people getting the wrong idea if I go in search of pamphlets to shove in your face. I thought it best to just bypass the paperwork, speed up the process a bit,” Peter jokes.

With a shaky exhale, Steve says, “Damn it. _Peter_. Peter, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, Pop. It’s no biggie,” Peter tells him but that doesn’t deter his pop from closing in, drawing him into a tight hug. Muffled by a wide shoulder and face stinging, Peter says, “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Really.”

“Don't say that. I do. The way I acted earlier. I didn't—I had no idea, Pete," he says, repeat, "I had no idea." And Peter's very afraid that he's broken his father. 

Pulling back, Peter watches him worriedly. "Pop? Are you alright?"

“I'm fine. You're such a kind boy, a remarkable son. I love you so much," he whispers feverishly while cupping Peter's head, mindful of the bruising. He kisses Peter's forehead gently, is very warm. Nodding, Steve reiterates after a few beats, when he's more himself, "I'm fine."

"Yeah? Because I've gotta say that you've looked better," Peter comments with a laugh. It's a little thick with emotion as well. Seems like it's just one of those nights. Maybe the magic of the season. He smiles. "So a little brother or sister, huh? Getting bored of me already?"

"Not for a damn second, kid," his pop says fiercely. "You'd be nuts to think otherwise. Boring and you don't belong in the same sentence. Peter, you are the craziest, brightest, and the most-rewarding part of my life. The best part of my life. You give me heart attacks and gut-busting laughs every day. Most days they're interchangeable. I wouldn't trade that in for anything."

"This is greed then?" Peter asks, brows raised. "You want double the trouble?"

"Something like that, yes." He locks eyes with Peter and he continues steadily. "But only if you're on board. Your dad has his say too, of course, but I don't want anything that you're not okay with. I am sorry, Peter. I'm not proud of the way I've treated you lately. You becoming a superhero has scared me in a way that nothing else ever has and I mean it, I'll never stop doing my best to keep you safe but you're right, I haven't been fair. I'm going to try and be less of a hardass."

"Oh I get to keep that one?" Peter asks, delighted.

"Cherish it," his pop tells him dryly, a small smile in place. "I'm going to try and be less of a hardass and I promise to do better by you. However, that doesn't mean that this has to happen. I want you to understand that. I'm not unsatisfied having only one child; you're more than I could ever dream of. I won't pursue this if it bothers you. I'm happy with how we live now."

His father means it, Peter knows. The power is in his hands. He could say no right now and the subject would be dropped, never be brought up again because his pop would do anything for him. Nothing too great or too small. And that's why Peter chooses yes. The incredibly kind gaze turned his way, the feeling of being precious, having someone on your side no matter what. To get into a fight with that someone who won't hold a grudge against you, let's you find solace in their lap all the same. Peter doesn't know where'd he be if this man hadn't chosen him, given him an unconditionally loving home. So many kids deserve the same. Peter knows what it's like on the other side and if he can bring someone else over, he'll do it. The answer is ridiculously easy.

"There's plenty of room in your heart for more happiness, obviously. Mine too. Dad? His giving nature is vast. A bottomless well that one," he says breezily. Peter drops a fist on the coffee table near them like a gavel and decrees, "I say we do it. And this is not me being self-sacrificing, by the way. I'm actually weirdly okay with this. It'll take some adjusting but I don't mind sharing my awesome dads. I’m cucumber cool with it. Permission granted. Not to mention, I need someone to halve all of my embarrassment, die in humiliation when _they_ have to tell you about _their_ love life."

Peter picks up on familiar footsteps approaching and, because sometimes he can't help himself, talks in a stage-whisper, more somberly, pitifully, “Let's not forget the fact that Dad’s getting up there. Dude’s almost fifty so I understand wanting to get a second child in while the clock is still ticking."

It’s actually like clockwork, his dad’s indignant shout. “Hey!”

Peter wheels his head around, enjoys his dad's look of horror. He waves. “Oh Dad! Hey! I didn’t notice you eavesdropping back there.”

His dad snorts and walks over to them. A pile of presents are stacked in his arms and he gives them a home under the tree prior to sitting on the other side of Peter. “We’re gonna try for another one of these why, Rogers?” He twists the lobe of Peter’s ear. “We raised a meany.”

Almost rendered speechless, Steve stares after them. "You wanna— _both_ of you. Are you sure?"

Leaning into Peter and speaking secretively, his dad gestures with his chin over to his pop. He teases, "You see that? What did I say? That is pure, unadulterated Christmas glee in his eyes. Be careful, though. Don't look too close. It just might blind you."

Peter nods in agreement. "I owe you five bucks. Rudolph _could_ be put out of a job."

His pop laughs bright. "The two of you..."

His dad shrugs. "Plotted behind your back? Guilty as charged, sweetheart. So yeah. We're sure. Merry Christmas, Steve."

Shaking his head and tone affectionate, Steve finishes, "The two of you are something else. Merry Christmas."

…

_Epilogue — Two years later_

“Peter!” is all the warning Peter gets before he’s blitzed at the door by his younger brother, Charlie. The kid’s faster than his spidey-sense.

“Hey, buddy! I missed you too,” Peter says with a huff of laughter, dropping his bags to his side to return the bear hug.

There’s a bright flash and the distinct shutter of a camera.

“Dad,” Peter and Charlie whine in unison as they break away from one another.

“Not cool,” Charlie groans.

“Can you not?” Peter begs.

Tony fans away their protests. “Shut up, the both of you. I’ve got adorable kids. I mean, no shocker there. You’re _my_ kids. No one can blame me. Especially when I haven’t seen my oldest in three weeks. It's been three weeks, Peter.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter responds, “They’re called finals, Dad. Being locked up in the dorms is kind of a thing.”

Pointing a firm finger, his dad says with emphasis, “That is the one and only time you can use that card.”

“Tony,” his pop exasperates softly. “I think that we all want for Peter to do well in school. Even if that means missing out on a few missions and not visiting every other day. He's here now, let's be happy about that."

“Okay fine. I’m mostly excited for the munchkin anyway,” his dad says. To Peter, “He’s been dying to put up the tree but refused to do it without you.”

“Aw, yeah? Then we need to get this party started immediately,” Peter decides in a bright tone. “Do you have the ornaments ready and everything?”

Like almost always, Charlie smiles with a closed mouth but it's big and to his eyes. “Yep but you have to change into your pajamas first. It’s tradition.”

This December will be their second time together with all four of them as a family so it’s actually a very new tradition but special all the same. The plan is for them to spend the entire day together. There’d be no leaving the mansion unless it was an emergency, hence the dress code of pajamas. Last year, they’d set up the tree, watched a marathon of holiday movies and ordered in a ridiculous smorgasbord of junk food. With it having been Charlie’s first Christmas with them, Peter and his dads had wanted to make it special. They’d wanted Charlie to know that he was stuck with them forever, that they had no intention of leaving him now that he was theirs and them his.

At ten, Charlie’s already been through more hardships than a kid has any business facing. It’s a wonder that he’s still able to have that earnest smile, genuine enthusiasm for life, after being bounced around from foster home to foster home, after having his innocence broken at such an early age in life. Some days are hard and apparently they’ll be a fixture of Charlie’s life well into his adolescent years but for the most part, he’s stronger than his past. He’s Peter’s hero, really. Peter’s helpless to share in his glee.

“Well I do have a new pair of Grinch footie pjs that I’m stoked to test out,” he says proudly, beaming.

His pop throws his head back with a laugh and it doesn’t take long for his dad and Charlie to join in.

"What?" Peter asks, genuine and with arms spread. "What?"

His family only laughs harder and Peter really wouldn't have it any other way.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so maybe I should explain the whole Charlie thing. This time last year, there was a gif floating around on tumblr that had Charlie as a member of the superfamily. I kind of adored it, so much that I suddenly found myself with an epilogue featuring him. I'm sorry if this offends anyone. The self-indulgence tag is very true. This was basically a Christmas gift to myself. I have no shame.


End file.
